There's a storm front coming!
Four years after he was presumed dead, Derrick Storm--the man who made Richard Castle a perennial bestseller--is back in this rip-roaring, full-length thriller.
Compliments of Richard Castle, we're excited to share Storm Front Chapter 1!
From Tokyo, to London, to Johannesburg, high-level bankers are being gruesomely tortured and murdered. The killer, caught in a fleeting glimpse on a surveillance camera, has been described as a psychopath with an eye patch. And that means Gregor Volkov, Derrick Storm's old nemesis, has returned. Desperate to figure out who Volkov is working for and why, the CIA calls on the one man who can match Volkov's strength and cunning--Derrick Storm.
With the help of a beautiful and mysterious foreign agent--with whom Storm is becoming romantically and professionally entangled--he discovers that Volkov's treachery has embroiled a wealthy hedge-fund manager and a U.S. senator. In a heated race against time, Storm chases Volkov's shadow from Paris, to the lair of a computer genius in Iowa, to the streets of Manhattan, then through a bullet-riddled car chase on the New Jersey Turnpike. In the process, Storm uncovers a plot that could destroy the global economy--unleashing untold chaos--which only he can stop.
| The gondolier could only be described as ruggedly handsome, with dark hair and eyes, a square jaw, and muscles toned from his daily exertions at the oar. He wore the costume the tourists expected of his profession: a tight fitting shirt with red- and- white jail house striping, blousy black pants, and a festive red scarf tied off at a jaunty angle. He finished the outfi t with a broad- rimmed sunhat, an accessory he kept fixed to his head even though it was nearly midnight. Appearances needed to be maintained.
With powerful, practiced movements, he propelled the boat under the Calle delle Ostreghe footbridge. When he felt they were sufficiently under way, he opened his mouth and let a booming, mournful baritone pour from his lungs.
“Arrivederci Roma,” he warbled. “Good- bye, au revoir, mentre . . .”
“No singing, please,” said the passenger, a pale, doughy man in a tweed jacket, with a voice that was vintage British Empire boarding school.
“But it’s-a part- a the ser vice,” the gondolier replied, in heavily accented En glish. “It’s-a, how you say, romantic- a. Maybe we- a find- a you a nice- a girl, huh? Put you in a better mood- a?”
“No singing,” the Brit said.